This weekend we took everything of Zachary's out of the baby room...his certificate of life, molds of his hands and feet, locks of his dark hair, the blue, knit blanket we held him in, baby boy clothes, pictures of the day he was born, and hundreds and hundreds of cards. I placed them in Rubbermaid bins (carefully-selected, practically indestructible ones) and they found their new home on the top shelf of our bedroom closet.
As we packed up our son's belongings, my heart ached and I could barely swallow. At one point, Shaun and I made eye contact, and I had to look away to avoid becoming hysterical. I just kept thinking, "This really happened? This is my life? Without my son?"
I know they're just things. They are not my baby boy. He's been gone for 15 long months now. They are not even my memories. Those are kept in a sacred place deep inside the heart of a mama and in the recesses of my mind. But they are physical reminders of a life that was...a life that changed my own forever...a life that I can no longer share in.
And so we live in this place of irresolvable tension. It feels like beginning a new chapter with the previous one left unfinished. As we prepare for this little girl to join our family, we celebrate. I praise God for the chance to carry her every, single day. Each time I get to watch my belly dance as she wiggles around. Every time I wake up at 3am to stumble to the bathroom. Every night as her daddy talks to her and kisses my belly. But we welcome our baby girl into our home and our hearts with this ever-present reminder that our family is missing someone...someone I'm missing desperately.